Letters to Peter
by my love addiction
Summary: She needed to talk to him, but he wouldn't even look at her let alone communicate with her. There was only one way left, one last hope before she went insane. But the question was: would he write back? One-shot. Very long. Tiniest bit of introspection. The Amazing Spider-Man universe.


**Okay, okay. I know…I should be working on my multi-chapter story. Sorry! This idea just came to me and I really wanted to get it out there before I lost it. I've lost too many ideas already because of my focus on my multi-chapter story. Please, just bear with me here, people.**

**Third person POV. My view on what would happen about a week after Peter told Gwen the best promises are the one you break. He never talked to her after that, but Gwen thought he would just be a little slow so she waited patiently. This is when she's done waiting.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to The Amazing Spider-Man.**

_Summary: She needed to talk to him, but he wouldn't even look at her let alone communicate with her. There was only one way left, one last hope before she went insane. But the question was: would he write back? One-shot. Very long. Tiniest bit of introspection. The Amazing Spider-Man universe._

**:::**

_It's not her fault, it's not her fault, it's not her fault._

The words play over and over again in her head like a record. A record that she wants to love so badly, but she can't help hating it. Hating the music. The beat. The lyrics. Everything. She can't rid this verse from her mind, the one that secretly and mockingly instigates she's the one to blame for her father dying, for Peter leaving. There are songs in her head about these life-changing events, and as much as she tries, the music can't leave her head. But when does it ever?

She's a music lover – call it her secret passion. But she's not, however, musically gifted. It's just one of those things that she can't comprehend, can't get straight no matter how hard she'd try. The music notes would swim in front of her eyes and form into numbers and letters; equations. And then the music teacher would shake her head and Gwen Stacy would try her hardest to not cry after being told she was wrong.

This was elementary school eight years ago.

Yet, even though she's in high school and she's already taken that Music Appreciation class, the notes still blur and try to make solid, believable things. Practical things such as algebraic sequences and scientific algorithms. The music notes just aren't reliable; they can change and hurt her for ruining the perfect song or they can replay until it's become a mantra with the never-ending 'Repeat' button on, sucking the life out of the her.

She's a music lover – call it her secret passion. But she can't really understand the words. She feels as if they're jumping up and down in her face, eager with the answer for why she feels the faint connection between herself and a song, but then she'll stop thinking, weary and exhausted, and feel frustrated with herself for not coming up with an answer. She more or less feels for the titles of the songs. For example, she finds the workings of Muse to reach her in her most critical thinking times. Or her most rebellious times. And then there are the songs of Kiss (yes, she likes them); they always seem to make her think of a happier place. Maroon 5 can be counted on when she's feeling her loneliest, and what kind of New York girl would she be if she didn't rely on the Zac Brown Band for a little southern getaway? She may not comprehend everything the songs have to offer, but at least she got something.

She's a music lover – call it her secret passion. However, the tunes of songs baffle her, and she finds herself asking questions each time she hears a new one. For instance, why does this song have this beat? Couldn't it be a bit slower? It'd still be nice then. Or why does the song have to have a guitar solo, or an acoustic section? What's so significant about those? What's its purpose?

But besides those things, she knows music. There's a universal force shared between all things music that just seems to click with her. It's called experimentation. All music is a work in progress; constantly upgrading, changing, rearranging, creating. Music is experiments; _she_ is an experiment. Her job is full of experiments. Her family is experiment_ing_. Her life is an experiment. That is the one thing music and Gwen Stacy share; experimentation.

She's a music lover – call it her secret passion.

But the song of the one and only Peter Parker just perplexes her.

She's never been good with the notes, the things that build up the song and make the song what it is. She's not the best at interpreting the lyrics, the words that somehow describe the song. She's not very attuned with the beats of songs, or what makes them go and sound like they sound. She tries cooperating with them, tries to take into account the notes and the lyrics and the beats to see the songs clearly and how they're meant to be seen. The whole world sees them this way, but why can't she?

It's the same for Peter Parker; the whole world sees him as Spider-Man, but why can she only see him as the tall, lanky, and gorgeously-awkward teenage boy who rebels silently against his school and his peers and has a passion for capturing things with a click of a button? Why can she only see him as the teenage boy who stole her hear, yet kept it protected for only a mere three days? Why can she only see him as the one who got away?

And the one thing that could bring her hope, finally getting her to understand this boy's melody, is experimentation. And he won't let her.

He has strayed – scratch that, _pushed_ – away from her, giving her no time to ask questions, like any good scientist like herself would. Giving her no time to produce a hypothesis. Giving her no time to test out any theories she dared to create. And, well, she can't resort to understanding his song musically because she's not gifted like that.

She's a music _**lover **_(not expert) – call it her secret passion. But let's face it; that will never get her anywhere in this world.

So Gwen Stacy resorts to the next best thing when science lets her down (rarely does this ever happen): act out on music. Like mentioned before, music notes are unreliable; risky. The structure of the song is not built with concrete, even if it _is_ publicized on the radio. Changes can be made, if the artist really wanted to. Nothing is ever set in stone in the music world. That's why it kills her so much to do something so big with only the influence and support of music. But she has to.

Songs don't appeal to her anymore. If she's in the car and the radio's on, her favorite station won't be the thing she tunes in to. Instead, her father's favorite radio talk show echoes through the speakers and fills her in on all that's happening in the sports world. Giants lost their second game in a row, Yankees won the World Series – again. That's a topic she can bring up at the dinner table since no one really talks anymore; it's as if the remaining members of her family have all mysteriously gone deaf.

But Peter Parker's song has been a wake-up call for her. Yes, it has been with her for a long time now – almost twelve years. Yes, she may have ignored it for the first 11 and ¾ years. Yes, she may have taken it for granted when she finally listened to it, not realizing just how important it was until it left. And then it returned for the quickest of moments, randomly shuffling into her mind's iPod playlist. The lyrics, so soft and breathy, had lingered in the air and swooped down her neck, leaving a trail of goose bumps in its wake.

"But those are the best kind."

Promises broken are the best kind. He had agreed. And all that was going on in her head was _yesyesyes, it's back, it's back._

She should have known it was only a sneak preview. A glimpse of the real thing. Because before she knew it, her favorite song walked out the door fifty minutes later, and when she finally had the chance to press play.

And the song haunted her, trailing her around like some sort of guilty ghost. A verse or a note might play with the first sign of a smile from him, or maybe a prolonged look, but then it would fade away as he vanished into the crowd of students.

But now Gwen Stacy is done. She's had enough of the foolish teasing. She wants her song; she yearns for it each night accompanied with pining looks out her window and onto her fire escape. She's tired of trying to remember everything about the song since two weeks have passed since she's last heard it. It has been slowly leaking from her mind, trickling down the sides of her head and producing a puddle of broken memories next to her. She needs it, otherwise she'll _die-_

As much as she doesn't like it, her only option is to act impetuously on the influence of music. Great.

You could say her inspiration was from If This Was A Movie by Taylor Swift; she'd listen to it over and over if she even _did_ resolve to listen to music. It's been in her top 5 for a while now, ever since the Lizard incident. Ever since _he_ left. The scientific part of her geeked-out and decided that a comparison was needed to get her story straight, a comparison of the song and her life. Nothing else was working, so why not give it a try? She wrote the lyrics down, then added notes next to each verse, commenting on what summarized how she felt, or what defined what happened to her after everything was over – after everything came crumbling in on her. It had been a slip of the pencil on paper that got her to realize that writing a letter to him was the best thing to do.

Of course. That was it. Love letters. Except she hoped he would still consider them love letters even if they weren't together anymore. Her plan formed.

She writes the first one quickly, briefly; trying to not let too many emotions show for fear she might overwhelm him. If she's written this letter once, she's written it a hundred times – over and over. The words would come, but then they wouldn't work. So she'd rephrase them, reword them, retain them, and then it finally came.

Her writing his shaky and nearly illegible, but it will do.

_Peter_

_I don't get it. I've waited, but you haven't done anything. What are you holding off on? Do you realize how much this hurts me, waiting around for you since you lead me on like that? Or was telling me you were going back on your promise just something you thought was prudent to do in the hopes to help cheer me up? Well, it didn't work. Just thought you should know._

_Gwen_

She rereads it maybe five thousand times, eventually making creases and dents where she holds the paper too tightly in anticipation and uneasiness. She decides to slip it into his locker before school starts on Monday. Taking deep breaths, she tightens the red bow tying her ponytail up, smoothes out the creases in the paper before folding it in half, glances up and down the hallway to make sure he's not here, then slides it through the little slot at the top of the locker door.

After she hears it fall to the base of his locker, she pales.

_**-what the hell did she just do?**_

Gwen stares at it hopelessly, bleakly, despairingly, racking through her brain to a time when he might have told her his locker combo. Except he had always been secretive, even with the little things and even with her. But that's just a part of the Peter Parker song, isn't it?

Whimpering dejectedly, Gwen shuffles off to her own locker, avoiding everyone's eyes who dare look at her. Behind the brave mask of indifference that seems to constantly be stuck on her face, Gwen's trembling. Never before has she ever put her heart out there like that, even when her father was still here. And of all the times she does put her heart on her sleeve (or rather paper, in this matter), it's when her father is gone. Never coming back. Her mask slips as she purses her lips tightly in an effort not to cry; tears fill up in her eyes, and the inside of her locker gets hazy and indiscernible. Her vision stays like this until she reaches class.

He doesn't show up for class.

Now that she's calmed down and has accepted that taking back the note is inevitable, her heart is once again closed off, her expression once again imperceptible, her presence once again unreachable. And she feels a little angry, too.

_Coward_, she thinks, glancing behind her shoulder at his empty seat. He's probably scared and caught off-guard by her letter, and is too afraid to even be in the same room as her. Her heart, despite her angered mind, sinks with the thought. The least he could've done is tolerate her existence, not dodge around the confrontation he would have to face sooner or later.

He doesn't show up to any of his classes.

Later that night, she paces her room, her European History essay forgotten for once in her life. At every sound coming from the outside world, Gwen whips her head around to look out her window, hoping to see a flash of red and blue leap from her fire escape quickly, not wanting to be caught, but determined to be seen. There is no flash. There's not even a rattle of the fire escape's railings, signaling someone's out on it. There's not even a single siren that goes off for the whole night. The whole night.

She wonders where he is, what he's doing, who he's with. He might just be slumming it and sleeping so hard he's dead to the world. Or he might be on the other side of town, protecting his own neighborhood instead of patrolling hers. Either way she feels hurt. And angry. And incredibly confused.

He's at school the next day, which surprises her. She's half-expected him to not make an appearance for the rest of the week, but she supposes he's trying to salvage his grades from the dumpster and needs at least a decent attendance record to do so. He makes no sort of eye contact – or _any_ contact, for that matter – when she passes him, her head held high as she struts down the hall with deceiving confidence towards her English class. He doesn't arrive until five minutes after the bell. Eye contact is once again void when he trips up the steps to his desk, nearly falling into her before stumbling into the seat behind her. The teacher, Ms. Ritter, gives him a meaningful glare and says, "Meet me after class, Mr. Parker." The room sniggers, and she can hear him slump into his seat, picturing him nodding tightly before rolling his eyes once Ms. Ritter's back is turned.

"Now," Ms. Ritter begins after writing something on the board. She turns to the side to let the students see the word 'letters' scrawled across the top in her neat, cursive writing. "Who can tell me about letter formats?"

Unlike most questions, Gwen's hand does not shoot up. The students beside her actually look at her in mild astonishment before turning to their own notes and searching for anything they might have on letters. Gwen's brow furrows and she faintly hears the sound of him shuffling his feet behind her, probably in a most uncomfortable way. Of course it would be that time of the school year when they talk about letters. The only reason they encourage seniors – even seniors who are in AP English – to study letters is because of the college applications and the job applications and so on and so on that they would be doing soon. Normally, she would be scribbling down things as fast as her left hand would let her, but all she can think is: _Shoot. Me. NOW._

Reluctantly, she picks up her pen as her other hand makes its usual journey high into the air. Ms. Ritter smiles at Gwen, thankful that there's at least _somebody_ she can rely on to answer her questions. Ms. Ritter nods at her, and Gwen takes a deep breath.

"Letters are a way of communicating," she says simply, not positive that her voice could stay un-faltering for much longer. She feels kind of sick to her stomach. Suddenly, it feels as if the room has gotten ten times smaller – and ten times hotter – making her feel as if he's right behind her, his hot breath drifting down her neck, his lips not even an inch away from her skin-

"Yes," Ms. Ritter says a little disappointedly. "Anything else?"

"They come in many forms, or types," Gwen offers, hating how quiet her voice is going, or how she can't shake the feeling that he's a lot closer to her than before. Ms. Ritter smiles in satisfaction and points at Gwen.

"Yes, that is what I'm looking for: they come in different types. By now, a few of you have probably written your college application letters. Out of those few, how many of you Googled how to write a college application letter?"

The class titters as a few brave students raise their hands shakily, faces going red. Ms. Ritter pays no attention, and plows on, Gwen desperately following Ms. Ritter's pacing with frantic eyes, feeling as if she was going to break out in a sweat anytime soon. Maybe it was better when he wasn't in school and directly behind her.

"This is why we need to learn this stuff. You will need it in your everyday lives for important things. You'll need to learn how to write a job application letter, or probably email, now. You'll need to learn to write acceptance letters, or authoritative letters, or official letters if you ever run into some trouble with someone and end up suing them." The class snickers again. "Maybe you'll end up writing a love letter to someone when you're feeling lonely and hurt."

That' it; she's gunna hurl.

"Someone – pick a letter, any type." Ms. Ritter moves over to the board.

"Love letter," a guy from the back calls out. The boys around him laugh and the girls smile bashfully. Ms. Ritter rolls her eyes good naturedly before writing 'love letters' on the board. She underlines it with a flourish before turning back to the class.

"What can you tell me about love letters, then?"

"They suck," the same guy says loudly. Ms. Ritter ignores him and gazes around the classroom expectantly, her eyes resting on Gwen longer than anyone else. She shifts uncomfortably in her seat again. Finally, she can't take it anymore, and her hand shoots up into the air. Gwen doesn't need the teacher to tell her she's right.

"They're a way of telling someone they love them without specifically writing the words. They may write them, but there's usually more behind it, such as explanations or stories, maybe even a poem. Sometimes love letters don't talk about love at all; sometimes they only talk about their feelings for each other though the real statement might hide behind words. It's like a letter coming from the heart without passing through the rational mind."

Ms. Ritter only smiles, and the room has gone strangely quiet, though it's still as hot as before. Gwen feels the first bead of sweat cling to the top of her head.

"Couldn't have put it better myself," the teacher says softly, glancing up at the class to smile at them all. "There will come a time in your life where you will think about love letters – hand-written love letters – and consider how valuable they may mean to someone. How…touching they are. How influential they are to somebody. They might be the most valuable letter ever. So what is the one thing they deserve to have?"

For once, Gwen's dumbfounded. What do love letters deserve to have when they truly are meaningful love letters?

"Anyone?" Ms. Ritter prods, holding her hands out. There's a pause before Ms. Ritter looks at Gwen – wait, no – looks behind Gwen and raises her eyebrows. "Mr. Parker, you think you know?"

"An answer," he says, and just with the two words, her mind is already taking a trip of its own. Suddenly, it's not the mundane classroom scene in front of her. No – all of a sudden, she's on the top of her apartment building, overlooking Manhattan at night when it's all aglow. There's a slightly chilly wind, but she doesn't want to ask for his jacket; nah, she's not into that stuff. He looks a little – er, embarrassed and uncertain next to her, but happy…really happy. And conflicted. She can see it in his eyes. She waits patiently for him to answer her; he wants to give her an answer, she knows he does, but he just can't.

"They deserve an answer," he says more quietly once Ms. Ritter's turned away with a mildly surprised expression and a small smile on her face.

Maybe this time his song will give her an answer.

It falls to the ground when she opens her locker at the end of school; a crumpled up piece of notebook paper hastily folded to slip through the slots of her locker. She has to hide the smile from stretching across her face as she stoops to pick it up, has to calm herself down so as to not rip the paper as she unfolds it quickly, has to remind herself that this is Peter Parker, and he's never been an openly expressive boy.

His song is a secret one, not very popular, not very…normal. Kind of like the Indie-rock bands he listens to all the time. Well, at least according to his iPod, which she happened to get a hold of a mere day before he said good-by to her. She still has it…she probably should return it. Except she needs to find it since she threw it across her room the afternoon she found it lying at the bottom of her backpack.

With trembling fingers, she carefully unfolds the note and scans his sloppy, boyish printing.

_Gwen_

_Please don't wait. It kills me inside every day I see you, so I know what it feels like for you. I said what I said because I was just feeling more alone than ever and I really needed you more than any other time right then and I'm sorry I said that. I shouldn't have, and it was a big mistake. I didn't mean to make you feel worse. I'm sorry. Please don't wait for me because if you do I will break._

_Peter_

The words are worse than she thought they would be. Carefully, folding up the note again, Gwen suppresses large tears from falling – _get ahold of yourself, Gwendolyn; you're still at school._ But the pain is too much. A hole has been punched in her stomach – no, her chest – leaving a colossal gaping wound to just sit there and slowly kill her. There's no way to fix it, no way to patch it up. The absence of a doctor is the absence of him. Therefore, this letter is just her death certificate waiting to be fulfilled. Maybe it already has.

Or maybe it hasn't.

She didn't see the p.s. before; the tears had blurred her vision too swiftly. But there it is, written in nearly miniscule writing:

_p.s. But don't stop believing._

The wound doesn't seem too fatal, now. It's as if this one simple phrase is an antibiotic, keeping the pain at bay until it wears off. But who's to say there isn't more antibiotics somewhere close by? She really hopes there is. Secretly, she thinks there is. Surprisingly, everything's a bit brighter, and the tears evaporate from her eyes as quickly as they came. _Don't stop believing._ The words stand out against the whole messy paragraph above it, and her heart lifts despite the heavy sinking it just endured.

Maybe he does love her.

'Cause he doesn't want her to stop loving him.

Don't Stop Believing is the 'Most Played' on her playlist by the time she gets home. She had decided she likes music again. Gwen takes up the challenge to memorize the words as she scours her room for his iPod, tossing up clothes and throwing shoes over her shoulder, ignoring angry letters to him crumpled up into balls scattering her bedroom floor. She doesn't touch those. Finally, she finds his iPod in the corner by her closet; not broken, a little dusty, and still working perfectly. He doesn't keep it locked, which doesn't cease to amaze her since she knows he's such a secretive boy. But she can't bring herself to scroll through his music playlists or check out his pictures. It hurts too much and the sides of the hole in her chest throb unexpectedly. The antibiotics are wearing off.

Her headphones stay in her ears throughout the night, and by the time her alarm goes off, her iPod is dead from overuse. No music to distract her during the walk to school, except it's like the song has never left her head, and now it's a challenge just to get the words _out _of her head.

At school, the halls are bustling with rowdy, laughing, happy people – and it's not even Friday. Gwen will never understand the behavior of her peers. Of course, he's not there when she's there – although she did arrive a little late – so she takes the opportunity to stalk down the halls inconspicuously and slide her second letter into his locker.

She had written it this morning when the rain woke her up at three, and she couldn't fall back to sleep since she was too restless. This time, the words flowed smoothly onto the paper, as if she had been preparing the letter in her sleep. She rests easy after it's finished, drifting off not long after. Maybe writing the letter had been the source of the nagging feeling she felt following her around everywhere last night. No longer regretting her decision to give him another letter, Gwen turns for first hour, Track B: French.

Her palms are slick with sweat by the time she sits down at her desk in Mademoiselle Bonnet's class. The regret comes rushing back to her before she can stop it: maybe her letter was too pushy. Maybe it had too much emotion. Maybe it didn't have _enough_ emotion. She goes over it in her head, trying to pick out the pieces that have maybe cost her a reply.

_Peter_

_You know I can't stop. Now that you've said it, now that it's out there…I can't. I'm sorry, too, for hurting you as well. I know now that I was feeling lonely and needed you then more than ever when I wrote you the first time. I was angry, too, and I apologize for making you feel guilty. You know I never mean to hurt you. Sometimes I can accept what you've promised, but sometimes I can't. And I give in. I won't give in anymore, but that doesn't mean I'm going to stop needing you._

_Gwen_

She blew it; she doesn't know how, she just knows she blew it. Somehow, something will offend him and he'll get mad at her and never talk to her ever again. She blew it. Nice going, Gwen.

Her first class with him is Chemistry, but he's not at his usual lab station when she enters the classroom, her ponytail swinging somewhat dejectedly behind her. His lab partner, some rich kid whose name she has yet to learn, sits alone sulking. Apparently he and the rich kid were on good terms. Friendly terms. Is it mean of her to think that she didn't know he has friends? She approaches the kid cautiously. He looks up at her with harsh, shockingly dark eyes, though they turn a little gentler when they connect with her blue ones.

"Hi," Gwen says slowly. "I was wondering if you knew where your lab partner was." She needs to know if he's here or not. Needs to know if he's going to crawl back into his dark, lonely hole after giving her a brief, one-time answer.

The kid shrugs. "I don't know, but he better show up. Pete's the only one who can get me to actually understand these douche bags," he mutters forebodingly, gesturing towards Mr. Sanders, their Chemistry teacher. Gwen ignores the insult – Mr. Sanders is one of her _favorite teachers_ – and gives the kid an apprehensive look. He's got curly, light brown hair that rests on his head in the perfect, male model-like way. He's got the look, too, but Gwen prefers hers more disheveled and rugged. And definitely more kind.

"The name's Harry, by the way. Harry Osborn. You do know that asking someone their name when you don't know them is the polite thing to do?" He smirks, but unlike the girl behind her, Gwen doesn't sigh contentedly and blush. Instead, she turns red with mild anger.

"Osborn?" she spits. "Like Norman Osborn's son?"

To her surprise, he frowns. "One and only, but not many people know that." Harry stares at her curiously, the first emotion to appear in his eyes, and Gwen's face goes redder under his haughty scrutiny. Peter really needs to pick better friends.

"Your father was my boss," she says a little rudely. "Well, my boss by distance." Harry only nods and continues to watch at her. With a little purse of her lips, Gwen spins on her heel and walks away from Harry Osborn, giving the door a quick glance as the bell rings and he still hasn't walked through the door.

He actually stumbles in twenty minutes later, hood up, face in the shadows, ragged jacket clinging tightly – almost protectively – around his stomach. The one hand holding the strap of his bag is cut up, purple bruises painted over the large bumps of his swollen knuckles, fresh blood creating a trail down the back of his hand. The girl closest to him wrinkles her nose in disgust and gives a small gasp. She can't see – nor can anyone see – but Gwen has a feeling his cheeks have gone a shade of red to mix with the purples, blacks, and blues that conceal his face.

It takes every ounce of restraint in her to not run to him and help patch him up slowly, carefully, lovingly.

"Ah, Mr. Parker. Glad you could join us," Mr. Sanders says, not looking up from the sheets he's observing. That's why Gwen likes Mr. Sanders: he's easy-going and doesn't question Peter whenever he arrives late. Of course Peter's entrance does not go unnoticed by the students. Whispers rise up like a swarm of angry bees, creating a hum to wave through the room and follow Peter down the little pathway and to his seat next to Harry. He passes Gwen as he goes, and she looks at him despite knowing that he won't look back.

But this time he does.

And his song blasts in her ears for the rest of the class, making learning nearly impossible, but she manages to pull it off anyway. The bell signaling Chemistry's over rings, and Mr. Sanders groans.

"Thank God, I thought it'd never end," he says, getting out of his desk swiftly and packing up his things wildly before pushing aside students and bolting through the door. It's sort of his routine, just to keep the kids interested. Gwen smiles placidly, nodding at some guy's comment on how Mr. Sanders's actual age is probably 15. As she puts her things away, she accidentally knocks her notebook to the floor. It falls to the ground open. Gwen stoops and picks it up before noticing the small, yellow Post-It note taped to the inside cover of her notebook; her heart stops.

Someone passes by her, bumping her elbow slightly and capturing her attention. It's him. Her eyes find his somewhat frantically, only getting the much-needed calm when the blue catches the brown in a look that could take down the whole building. Much like the Lizard. Then he smiles, and she feels as if they're taking down the whole world. The smile is not _her_ smile but it's one of her favorites. _All _of them are her favorites.

Suddenly, he blushes and is pushed forward by none other than Harry Osborn.

"Come on, Romeo, you're creepin' me out," he says, rolling his eyes before glancing at Gwen. She stares him down in cold curiosity, as if daring him to speak with her again. She doesn't like Harry Osborn – not at all. Peter doesn't look at her again; instead, he ducks his head as he and Harry leave the classroom, and it's only then when Gwen realizes how damaged Peter's face had been. She shivers, then looks towards the note again, hoping to find some comfort in it.

_I don't want you to stop. But I'm not good with love stories._

That's all that's on it, the two simple sentences written in his signature calligraphy. But it's enough to get her heart pumping, her hands slick once again with a light sheen of sweat, and a large, almost alarming smile to cross her face. _They're getting there._

She can feel it. They're so close to speaking again, so close. And when they do speak, maybe they'll do more than just talk. But she has to word this carefully.

She rips a piece of paper from her notebook and scribbles her response quickly on it. She folds it up hastily and throws the last of her things in her bag before marching out the door, determined to find him. He's standing at his locker alone – thank _God_ – so she holds her binder close to her chest, letter packed tightly into her fist. His back is turned to her as he looks into his locker and he's scratching the back of his head, probably wondering for the five hundredth time where his iPod could be. His jacket pocket is open, so she takes her chance, quietly approaching him…she slips it in-

Yes.

He finally turns when she's at her own locker, spinning the dial and opening it up, trying very hard to suppress the smile that threatens to break her perfect façade of coolness. Gwen peers over her shoulder, checking to see if he's noticed her note or not. He's not there, probably on his way to his next class. Her smile slides off her face; she has to admit, she's a little disappointed he hasn't done anything yet- What is she thinking? She just slipped him the letter, for crying out loud!

_Gwendolyn Stacy, do not be like that Mary Jane girl and get tangled up in boys. You have a perfectly – well, not perfectly – good life ahead of you; you can live in this one boy gets away._

Except he isn't just that one boy, her high school crush. He isn't just some boy who's caught her attention and seems to understand her better than anyone else. He's her future. His song has been interweaved with hers so tightly, it's become its own remix song with the two of them singing it together.

She has a free-track next period, which in her case is probably the best thing she needs. She sits down at her lunch table out on the school grounds, pulling out her biology homework and finishing it easily. Then she pulls out her book, trying to drag her mind to a world different from her own, a world where vampires fall in love with humans, or a world where children fight for their lives in an arena, or her favorite: a world where aliens fight for their lives and the human race.

I Am Number Four has been her go-to book when she's feeling her worst. The simplicity of the normal world and the supernatural world coexisting just appeals to her so much, she reads it with rapt attention and barely surfaces from the town of Paradise, Ohio or the planet Lorien at only the most desperate of times. In a way, she feels as if her story is like John's and Sarah's. She's the plane Jane, the ordinary human girl that gets swept up in the presence of the extraordinary outsider, and ends up falling head over heels in love with him. Sarah couldn't help it, so why should she?

As a wise man once said:

"We're all a little weird, and life's a little weird. And when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall in mutual weirdness and call it love."

Except, in the story, John had to leave. Peter…he chose to leave. Or did he?

It was something to consider, especially if it effected whether she should be wasting her time writing these letters to him or not. Did Peter chose to leave? She knows for sure that her father had made him promise to not see her, to not speak with her, to have nothing to do with her. To protect her.

Jesus Christ- her safety was just as great as the next guy's! They were living in New York, a city full of crime! So why was it so important that she couldn't be seen with Peter Parker just because someone crazy but smart might come along and make a connection? What were the chances?

He might be acting on her father's orders, but he didn't have to keep them. In case he hadn't noticed, her father's dead. Gone. He's not here anymore to keep an eye on the two of them and make sure Peter doesn't come anywhere near her. And what would her father know about high school love? He hadn't had a girlfriend until college! He never experienced the thrill of being a teenager and being in love – he never knew how invincible it was or how dangerous it could be if you put a stop to it. If you controlled it.

Wrong move, Daddy.

But Peter could be helping. He could be standing up against her father's bullying words. But he's not. Which makes her believe he's just playing a cat-and-mouse game with her. He wants her to love him, but he wants her to stop hurting. He wants her to go after him, but he can't even say if he'll let her. He wants to be with her, but he doesn't want to risk her safety.

God dammit, Peter Parker – there is no middle-ground! There is no Switzerland!

Snapping her book shut, she gets up from the table and glares around the grounds. She knows he's got a free-track, too. She's seen him wandering about the halls, taking pictures reluctantly of things for yearbook, taking pictures enthusiastically of things that actually call to him. Or he just sits with his head in his hands.

But most of the time he's gone.

(She knows where.)

She spots Harry Osborn quickly, and it'll be the first and only time that upon seeing him her heart leaps into her throat. Maybe he's with Harry. Next to Harry is a small girl with deep red hair; the girl of Gwen's secret envies and suppressed scorns: Mary Jane Watson. It doesn't surprise Gwen that she's attached to Harry's side, looking up at him admiringly. But when she laughs, she turns to the boy next to Harry, the boy with the mussed up brown hair and shabby jacket, looking so meager compared to Richie Rich in his designer's coat beside him.

Jealousy burns inside of her, and all she can see is the three of them, but mostly two. Peter and Mary Jane. If it weren't for the past few weeks, she might have thought Mary Jane and Peter actually look cute together. Not compatible, but still acceptingly cute. But that past few weeks _have _happened, and now all she can picture herself doing is throwing daggers into Mary Jane's annoyingly seductive body, even though it's clear as day that Mary Jane's interested in Harry.

No girl ever talks to Peter. Except for Gwen.

Peter blushes as Harry and Mary Jane laugh, probably at him. He fingers the edge of his skateboard nervously, eyes wandering from the two superior teenagers in front of him. She should've known they'd find her. Except she is a little obvious, standing in the middle of the courtyard with her arms half extended as if to reach out and extract him from the grasps of Harry and Mary Jane. They stay, though, not flitting away like they usually would, locked in her blue-eyed glare.

Gwen finally looks away, but only towards Harry first, then rests on Mary Jane. She can tell he's still watching her. Gwen looks back up at him, raising her eyebrow in a condescending manner. His mouth opens and snaps shut, and he grimaces, too, never taking his eyes from hers. Gwen gives him a small, parting smile before doing a 180 spin and marching in the direction opposite of him and his group of friends. (Again, is it mean to think that she never knew he has friends?)

That night, it's Love Story by Taylor Swift on replay while she sleeps.

She's in the hallway after fifth period when he slips it into the hood of her rain jacket. He's scribbled his answer on the back of her previous response. She scans it quickly:

_Peter_

_Nobody's good with love stories. Leave that to Shakespeare. But can we at least not make this a tragic one? Can we try to make this a happy one?_

_Gwen_

His response is short, like the one before.

_You're right. I don't think I'd like a story comparing to one of Edgar Allen Poe's. And anything but __Romeo and Juliet__ is fine with me. But I have a better idea._

_Peter_

The suspense, much like I Am Number Four, is too much for her, and she needs to know the answer. Like every new song that comes on the radio, you can't wait to be the first to hear it and the first to know it by heart. The first to fall in love with it. And if he's really staying true to his letters and not playing her, things are looking up. Who knows?

Maybe they'll start speaking again.

There's a p.s. waiting for her to read at the bottom of the page. She reads it and forces down a laugh. Of course Peter would mention something like this:

_p.s. Did you see Scott Disick get glitter-bombed?_

She's not the only one who has got a secret, unhealthy obsession over Keeping Up With the Kardashians. One of the few secrets she actually manages to retrieve from him in the short period of time they could actually talk to each other.

So she pulls out her cell phone, paying no attention to the school's rule for no cellular devices allowed during school hours (gasp – Gwen Stacy's breaking a school rule?) and quickly composes a text to him. When she hits send, she reminds herself to YouTube Scott Disick, glitter-bombed when she gets home.

She laughs until her sides hurt after watching it…over and over again. She considers calling him and sharing the experience. But they aren't there yet. They're close, though. So close. Too close to be healthy.

P!nk's Glitter in the Air raids the 'Most Played' list and sits at the top. She wears out her iPod's battery once again by dawn.

The walk to school is long and dull. She checks her phone maybe thirty times just at one stop light, but he hasn't answered her simply reply. She had asked him – and quote – 'What?', hoping that he'd send back his answer ASAP, but apparently he had better things to do. Like sleep during American History. (She saw him.)

The sun's still not shining. Hasn't been shining since that freak storm a little over a week ago. A constant cover of clouds and rain clog up the barely-there sky since it's usually occupied by skyscrapers. To tell the truth, she doesn't mind it when the sun's not shining. Better reading light.

It's Friday, now, but the halls are eerily quiet. Of course, they're not completely quiet, but it seems as if everything's subdued. A shooting had killed three people last night, and injured fourteen others. It happened at a bank four streets down from Gwen's apartment. Spider-Man had swooped in and stopped the gunman from killing an innocent little girl, but the gunman eventually turned the gun on himself before the police could get to him. Two of the deceased were relatives to some people at school.

She half believes he won't be here today. Maybe guilt's keeping him sitting on top of some building overlooking the more sinful part of town. But he's there, at his locker. However, he's slumped against it miserably, as if tired by his very presence being at school. She can't quite seem to catch his eye and unfortunately her only class of the day without him is in the opposite direction. With the bell seconds away from going off, she has no other choice but to head for French.

The school day goes surprisingly fast, and finally – _finally_ – she's putting her things away and taking out the ones she needs for her last class of the day. She's received no text messages from him, or any kind of messages. In fact, she hasn't seen him since this morning. Gwen's starting to worry; maybe he's taking back what he said. Maybe he regrets it. Wow, she's full of 'maybes' recently.

'Maybes' are for Mary Jane. Gwen's more of a 'when' kind of girl.

She jumps at the unexpected buzzing of her phone in her pocket. Fumbling, she extracts the thing from her coat and slides the unlock button aside, revealing her 1 New Text Message. She punches the accept button hastily, wondering if he'd ever crack the screen if he's in a situation like her's. His answer is one she hadn't anticipated.

_Turn around._

Frowning at the screen, she complies.

His eyes are the first thing she sees. Those eyes…the dark brown gates to his soul. And then she sees his damaged face – his perfect, damaged, beautiful face. And then his lips are moving, and she barely registers what he's saying.

"How about we make our own?"

Her mouth opens in an inaudible gasp as she racks through her brain, trying to find the right words. Trying to find the instructions on how to breathe. He's here, in all his awkward, seventeen year-old glory. She has to remind herself that she's mad at him for leaving her, but it's kind of hard.

She'll try.

Mustering up just enough courage, she shoves him. Shoves him hard. He stumbles back, clearly startled by her actions. Well, if he thought she had completely forgiven him for just leaving her, think again.

"Gwen, wh-?" he sputters out, balancing himself just in time before losing his footing.

"How could you just do that?" she cries out, trying to remember the way she practiced this confrontation over and over in her head. "How could you just leave me when I needed you and shut me out? Huh? Didn't you care?" She's creating a scene, she knows that. Her peers look to the two of them excitedly, finally getting the answer to their much brought-up question about what happened to Gwen Stacy and that Parker boy? She shoves him again – for good measure.

"Gwen, I-"

"No, you listen to me! I was there to help you, but you chose to shut me out. But when I needed help, I actually wanted you – but you never came! Riddle me this, Peter: do you enjoy being alone? Do you like all the sympathy you get for going solo?" He flinches, but this is her time to let everything out; all the pent up anger she's bottled up so as not to explode in front of her brothers or in the middle of class, she's letting out. Gwen Stacy is done; she can't hold in her song much longer, but her song can't exist without his.

So she needs his, otherwise she'll _die_-

"I thought I could trust you! I thought I could just lay my heart out for you and expect you to do the same! I thought that we-"

But what she thought they could do, no one found out. Instead, they found that Peter Parker's lips sought out Gwen Stacy's with a swiftness that could only be described as 'unreal'. And the kiss to follow was one that you didn't see in public very often.

A rough, passionate, much-needed kiss is shared between the two of them. From different perspectives, it's her way of saying I'm mad at you, but I still love you. From different perspectives, it's his way of saying I'm sorry, but shut up 'cause I need you. But generally, it was the 'everything's better now' kiss. Their mouths dance together in rhythm to the song they create, finally feeling the familiar freedom within each other. His tongue reaches out to comfort her's and her fingers rake through his hair soothingly. They're together now; they're okay. They survived.

A warning is given to the both of them for displaying such inappropriate behavior on school grounds and during school hours. The crowd of kids surrounding the two of them boo the teacher who reprimanded them. As their audience disperses under the harsh gaze of the teacher, Gwen rounds on him.

"What made you change your mind?"

"Who said I ever did?"

His song becomes her background music, always there in her head. Probably because he's always in her head. And it stays there.

For the rest of her life.

She's a music lover – call it her secret passion.

**The End. And I promise I'm working on Never Meant for This to Happen. I've already got a good chunk of it done, so don't worry. I promise I'll work on it tomorrow and we'll see if it's done in time for it to be posted.**

**Enjoy-**

**TeamSwiss737**


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